


Cordate

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cunnilingus, F/M, Female Legolas, Oral Sex, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4388645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite his misgivings, Thranduil is drawn to help his ward relieve her cramps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cordate

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for camembertandberries’ “fem!Legolas/Thranduil? Established relationship where Leggy is starting to get cramps again as a sign of her incoming monthly period? Idk if elves have that, but yeah. And Thranduil, knowing that her hormones are at a tipping point at this time, comforts her by eating her out?” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). I tend not to like incest with women because it’s harder for me to distance myself from, so I made Legolas Thranduil’s ward instead of daughter, and then I flunked the establish part. OTL Sorry.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Though their relationship is somewhat strained, Thranduil’s unaccustomed to going so long without the pleasing sight of his ward. Most days, their contact is little more than a passing glance, but then Legolas will spend time with his guard and join his captain for a report, standing before Thranduil’s throne with her head held high. Other days, they see one another at dinner across the king’s private table, and occasionally, he’ll find her with his elk—Legolas is the only other elf the great steed will allow to ride him. Tonight is the second in a row that Thranduil’s seen no sign of her, and though it’s nothing in the long life of an elf, she’s under his protection, and he moves to seek her out.

When he leaves his throne, he heads straight for her quarters, not far from his own. He’s never truly thought of her like a daughter, and she’s never treated him like a father, but he does his best to extend her all the courtesies that he would a princess. The doors to her chambers are nearly as tall as his, carved elaborately with wistful depictions of trees, and one guard stands on either side, always at the ready. She’s a more than capable warrior on her own, but so is Thranduil, and his quarters always share a similar guard. For all their distance, Thranduil values Legolas’ life as much, if not more so, than his own.

His knock is quiet, but he knows from experience that it reverberates inside. Several minutes pass with no answer, each putting another stab of tension into Thranduil’s shoulders, but he stands patient. If she were out, the guards would tell him so. He would force his way inside if needed, if he thought her well being in danger. First, he lifts his hand for a second knock, but the doors slowly part.

Legolas peers between them, one hand around the twisted knob and the other holding the silken white of her robe together. She wears nothing but that, her feet bare against the stone floor and her head free of any crown. He’s given her many diadems over the years, the best he could have crafted, inlaid with white jewels like stars, but she prefers only thin, delicate braids behind her ears. She’s a simple thing, for all her beauty. Her pale-gold hair and blue-silver eyes are so reminiscent of his own, and yet there’s still that strangeness between them, even now. He tries to soften his face, take away the cruel negligence he often shows and instead pushes forward his concern. In a level tone for the benefit of the guards, he asks, “Are you well, Legolas?”

Even before she looks away, he knows the answer. He can see the slight wince to her sculpted features, the whiteness in her knuckles over her breast. The robe barely covers her at all—it’s nearly sheer in its thinness, hugging all her supple curves, her bare legs a provocative view beneath them. She’s so devastatingly _gorgeous_ , just as she always is, and in the back of Thranduil’s mind, he _knows_ that’s part of the problem. He can’t allow himself to become any closer to his ward, because he can’t trust himself not to desire her, with all her art and skill. Finally, she parts her pink lips to murmur, “I am fine.”

She lies too easily. When she adds, “I apologize if my absence was noticed,” her eyes flicker back to him, and he can’t stop his frown from deepening. He recognizes the barb. Or perhaps it’s bait. She can be feisty, even when ill, it seems.

He doesn’t rise to it, only lifts a questioning brow and asks, “May I come in?” He keeps polite, casual, and she eyes the guards—of course he’ll be this way before them. He can see her pert mouth toying with a pout, and he wouldn’t put it past her to close the door on him. But she eventually opens the doors wider, stepping aside to give him room. He sweeps into the invitation.

Her quarters are dimly lit, made more so when she closes the door behind the drag of his silver robes. A few candles are awake, but he can tell that he caught her during rest—it would explain her nakedness. She comes to stand in front of him, and as if in apology for his coldness, he deliberately steps closer to her. He lifts his hand to press his palm against her cheek, cupping her soft flesh— _dangerous_ ; the touch is tantalizing—and he asks, “Tell me what is wrong, Legolas.”

She opens her mouth again, but only runs her tongue along it. The bitterness has gone out of her eyes. He knows that for all her insolence, she _wants_ a relationship with him; she’s usually the one to try, to put in the effort to assure they see one another. He can see the struggle in her to say the truth, and it deepens his worry, until she admits quietly, “My lord, you know that I... that I was born differently.” He nods, and instead of pulling his hand away, he rubs his thumb across her cheek, encouraging more. If something has gone wrong with her transition, he can send for a wizard immediately, but she must be honest with him for it. Hesitant, she continues, “I do not know if you are aware, but I... when I asked the white council to alter my body this way, they gave it to me ready to... to bear children.” The last part is hushed. At first, Thranduil doesn’t understand.

Then he slowly withdraws his hand, relief spiraling in him. He has sympathy for her plight, but he now knows it’s nothing permanently damaging. He doesn’t have to say anything; she must be able to see his understanding. She closes her eyes, hanging her head as though in shame, and she mumbles, “It is silly, I know. I have had it many times, as do many others, and I know that Tauriel, for instance, would never allow it to effect her. And yet I...” pausing, her voice becomes smaller, weaker, and she nearly whines, “my lord, it _hurts_.”

“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” he tells her first, and it’s enough to draw her gaze again. “There is no need to compare yourself to Tauriel or any other: we are all different. As for your... condition... there are many remedies for the unease of cramps. And you are my princess here; you have access to all of them. Any herb you should desire, packs of heated water...”

Stifling a small laugh, Legolas shakes her head. He can see some of the relief in her that he isn’t judging her as younger, selfish elves are sometimes wont to do. “I know, my lord. And I thank you for that. But I... I am familiar with all the traditional treatments, and I am afraid they are not enough...”

He doesn’t know what else to offer. He wants to help her, naturally, but they’ve crossed into one of the few realms beyond his control. Under his steady gaze, her own falters, and her cheeks stain a faint pink around the edges. The flush only makes her all the more alluring, even in her current state. He tries to reel his interest in; it’s highly inappropriate. She murmurs, “I am sorry to burden my king with such things.”

One of the strangest things is seeing her so demure, when she’s usually such a fierce warrior. He can imagine it’s difficult to reveal such intimate details of her body with a man who barely acknowledges her existence most days. There’s only one thing left for Thranduil to offer, and at first, he doesn’t think he will—it would be much easier to leave, assured that she will live. But he cares for her too much for that. Throat dry, he bitterly says, “I will send you any man, or otherwise if you are so inclined, that you choose.”

Legolas’ eyebrows knit together, clearly confused. “My lord...?”

It’s too difficult to continue looking at her, and he pretends to examine the intricacies of her headboard, her bed overlaid with rich, green sheets and wooden posts to rival his own. He knows he’s walking a thin, terrible line, yet still tells her, a note of warning in his voice, “Surely by now you are old enough to know that one can mitigate the pain by... sexual forays.” She doesn’t answer. But he can feel her eyes hot on his neck, and he mutters, “You are very beautiful, Legolas. Any elf would be happy to please you.”

Whisper-low, she asks, “Who would you send to me?”

Thinking of a specific elf atop her puts an anger in his stomach he doesn’t care to confront. He evades the question, repeating, “Anyone you chose.”

She comes closer to him. He can’t help but turn, noting how her feet tuck in between his, so near that her arms brush his chest, still clasping her robe together. He can see down them and focuses instead on her face, where the fire is coming back into her eyes. She takes a moment to look at him, as though daring him to step away. He doesn’t. 

She parts her lips and purrs, “What if I chose my king?” 

His heart nearly stops in his chest. He studies her intently, but she holds firm, proud and strong with no hesitation. It’s like something out of a dream, a fantasy. When he’s digested her words, he tightly hisses, half hoping to scare her away because it would change _everything_ , “You would have me at your feet?”

She answers merely, “Or on my bed.”

Treacherously, his fingers curl beneath her chin, tilting it up—she’s tall, but not quite so much as him. He can feel her quickened breath against his knuckles, though she struggles to remain as regal, as unaffected as he always appears. He only has to duck his head a fraction, and indeed, she leans up, keening, clearly waiting for a kiss. Her lashes fall low, eyes clouded beneath them. It’s true _desire_ on her face; they’ve moved beyond the simple desire to alleviate cramps. It makes him wonder how he could’ve possibly missed this. Perhaps he wouldn’t have if he’d paid her the attention she deserves. Perhaps if he’d paid even less attention, he wouldn’t have fallen into this trap. 

For all their struggles, his little Greenleaf has never been someone he could deny. Thranduil inevitably surrenders, brushing his lips over hers. She presses higher instantly, flattening them together, still chaste but insistent, undeniable. His hand slips back into her hair, threading through it to cradle the back of her neck, and her hands splay against his chest, sliding up to wrap around his shoulders. She clings to him not as the child he never knew her as, but a woman that’s wanted too long.

There’s no sense denying anymore. Knowing she wants this doesn’t alleviate his doubts, but it’s enough to tip the scales. He scoops her up easily, bending to throw an arm beneath her knees, and he lifts her into his arms. She weighs nothing, and she clings to him simply, able to ride any beast with grace. He carries her in his arms, warning her along the way, “This is a serious flame you dance with.”

“I am sure,” she insists, even as he deposits her atop the mattress. She spreads along it, languid and perfect: a queen in the making. But she twists her hands into his hair and drags him down with her. She rearranges herself to lay her head in the pillows, and he has no choice but to straddle her, hovering atop her on all fours, and she murmurs, “I wanted you from the moment you first took me in. The only times I ever called you _Ada_ were when I wished to provoke you, for you were too cold, even when I could see in your eyes that you wanted to embrace me.”

“The wrong kind of embrace,” he admits, a smirk-like grin twisting along his lips. She’s been more conniving than he gave her credit for, and she knew more than he wanted her to. But he’s pleased with it, with her intelligence and ability to know him the way so very few do. She was so young, back then, and is young now, only hundreds to his thousands. She looks like she could be his daughter. Evidently, the disparity doesn’t bother her the way it does him. 

Another time, perhaps, he will take her outside, and they’ll watch the stars from the woods before retiring to his chambers, and he’ll lay her down and kiss away every wound he ever gave her. He’ll stroke her, kiss her, whisper to her his wants and listen to her hopes and dreams. For now, she isn’t quite comfortable enough to bother with all that, and he has a task in mind. This is something, finally, where he can be of true use to her. He lifts to sit, combing the curtain of his hair back over his shoulders, and he shuffles back to sit between her legs, which spread so easily, so wantonly for him. It hikes up her robes, and her hands fall away from the opening. She lays her hands, palms up, down in the sheets, arms bent in surrender. He’s the one that bares over her, pushing the silken fabric slowly open. 

She’s _beautiful_. Of course she is; he never doubted it, but she’s more so than he ever could’ve dreamed. He reveals the small mounds of her humble breasts, so delicately curved with pert, pink-brown nipples that pebble quickly in the air, rising and falling with each of her steady breaths. He watches the swell of her chest with growing desire, then lowers to run his tongue along one erect nub. Legolas has a sharp intake of breath that spurs him on, and Thranduil closes his lips around it, suckling gently, earning another gasp. He would drink from her, if he could, and it makes him wonder sinfully what it would be like to put a child in her belly—another royal with golden hair and the strength of a warrior. Another talk for another time, perhaps. He swirls his tongue around her tip, and when he draws back, he leaves a wet, pink ring around her breast, glistening in the candlelight. The other nipple he tweaks with two fingers, meaning to leave it be but unable—he tastes it, too, taking another deep suck and hungrily swallowing her cries. 

It would take him some time to move on from the joy of her breasts, if not for her fingers slipping into his hair, pushing him down. He reminds himself that she _hurts_ , and he holds her cure. He sticks his tongue back out to trace down her middle, eyes staring up at her, while he dips into her navel. He gives it a proper lick, swirling around, keeping contact with her eyes, and then he lowers his head enough to kiss the blond tufts of hair that line her opening. He pushes the robe away completely, reveling in every part of her creamy thighs. When he places his hands on them, they open wide for him, trying to entice him, though he doesn’t need any more. He already has her convinced. 

He rises back up despite her noise of distress. He needs to stare down at her, eye every bit of her. She doesn’t hide herself from him, doesn’t even try. She only looks up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks, parted lips, breathing hard. He idly pushes one sleeve down her shoulder, and she obeys the silent command, sitting up on her elbows to shrug it off. She removes the rest of her robes for him and tosses it aimlessly aside, lying before him with nothing to hide her, though he still has his robes done up to his neck and his crown around his head. He traces his fingers along her thigh, running to her stomach, and then he presses gently down, murmuring, “It hurts here?”

Shivering, Legolas lets out a needy whine: all the confirmation he needs. She mewls, “ _Thranduil_ ,” but gets no further. She makes his name sound like music to be revered, respected, cherished. 

He coos, “My poor princess,” and trails his hand down to cup between her legs. 

Legolas’ mouth opens wide, her gasp breathy and fluttering. He kneads her only softly, watching the slight tremors that run through her at each movement. Then he presses his fingers into her, not breaching but teasing between her lips, and when he pulls away, he’s pleased to find his fingers slick with juices instead of blood. Allowing a lazy smirk, he tells her, “I do not fancy the taste of blood, but if you wish, you may have any other part of me when the time comes.” She looks at him with flushed, deep eyes and a ravenous expression. In truth, he would still lend her his tongue if she asked, but he would prefer to sink his cock in her, or tease her with his fingers, again and again until the need left and they could afford slow, luxurious sex again. 

For now, his mouth already waters at the thought of tasting her. He slinks back down, pushing back to curve along the bed, adjusting into a comfortable position; this time, he means to stay. He brushes all his hair back to clear his view, and to his surprise, she reaches down to pluck the autumn crown from his head. She places it aside in the mattress and offers no explanation for this preference. He doesn’t retrieve it. She’s the one that asked for the service of her king, but if she wishes only for a man, than he will give her that. He’s confident in his ability to please his subjects all the same. It’s been a long time since his tongue explored the rosy folds of a woman’s body, and he looks forward to employing those skills again. She looks just as ready. 

His first taste is only a languid swipe; he presses his tongue against the very tip of her moist entrance and runs gradually down, only lightly brushing over her, finding her blushing flesh velvet-soft and already wet before it meets him. The single line makes her body tense, her breath catching. He runs his long fingers up along her thighs, squeezing just enough for her to feel and for him to enjoy it, but his fingers also serve to hold her down; he wouldn’t put bucking into him past her. For all her control, she’s still a young thing and still a wild creature, bound by her emotions. Indeed, he can feel her taut muscles strain against him. He thumbs her inner thighs as his tongue teases back up her lips, now swerving slightly. At the tip, he presses harder, mapping the feel. He searches for only a moment before he finds the small nub of her clit, half hidden but easily traceable once he knows where to look. This he flays against, to her instant moan, and he presses his chin into her, opening his lips wider. He sucks at her, tongue hard against her clit, for one teasing moment. Then he withdraws, slipping down again. 

He brings a little bit more pressure on each line he makes, straying a little further, licking more and more, until he’s pressing into her, pausing in one place to see how deeply he can dive. She opens for him, her skin burning hot and dribbling clear around him. The raw smell of it is thick this close, musky yet alluring, something he inhales with pleasure: the scent of his little leaf. When he’s extended his tongue as much as he can, he moves it again, swirling it around, and he begins to draw it in and out, lapping with a hungry vigor. Like most elves, she’s meant to be tasted, almost sweet but a little bitter, her skin salty but slick inside, and he enjoys it especially because he _wants_ her, very, very much. He swallows the liquid that drizzles along his tongue, but he doesn’t let it delay him long. He’s diligent, prioritizing her pleasure above his own. She’s become a flurry of moans and gasps above him, all tinged with pleasure and none of pain. He wants her focused on this, and he keeps her high at that edge. Every lick of his tongue is delivered with a purposed skill, and soon she’s writhing against him. 

He holds her down easily, but her fingers set to work in his hair, combing through and clawing at his skull, holding him close against her pussy. His nose is already buried in her stomach, his tongue busily making love to her, _fucking_ her, plundering her sweet body and occasionally straying up to flick against her clit, though mostly he explores, finding the pleasure spots inside her. It helps that he has a particularly long tongue and tight control. When she tries to groan his name but can’t quite seem to manage, stuttering, “ _Thra_... _Thrand_...” he knows she’s close. He looks up at her, between her shuddering breasts, to see her peering at him one moment, tossing her head back the next. Her chest arches off the bed, and he digs his fingers tighter into her legs, wondering just how _rough_ with her he could be on other occasions—she’s a fighter, could she take him in the woods, be pounded into the stone, fucked hard against a tree, bent over his throne or even while he rides his elk? Perhaps she’ll wish to remain in her bed while her condition lasts, but when she feels comfortable enough to leave, there are so many corners of his kingdom that he would like to take her in. She fits so well in his kingdom, his home, his arms. She looks like she was _made_ for him. He’s always loved her, in his own way, but she makes him _adore_ her, in every conceivable way, and he pours that into her body, fucks her hard on his tongue, until she arches almost violently, shrieking at the top of her lungs. 

Legolas’ cries can likely be heard by the guards in the hall, but in this moment, Thranduil can only take pride in the bliss he brings her. Her juices bubble even thicker, pouring into his mouth, and he drinks it all, licking her right through it, even as her walls spasm and twitch around him. He milks out of her everything she has, and her orgasm lasts an impressively long time, until finally it bursts, and she collapses, voice hitching and working into a whimper. 

Only when Thranduil’s wracked several more tremours out of her body does he withdraw his tongue. He lifts to sit, watching her, beautiful and trembling, her hair slick across her forehead where she’s tossed back and forth. He’s seen her race for hours without raising a sweat, but now her body glimmers with it, her chest shuddering. She’s flushed pink to the tips of her ears, icy blue eyes almost entirely eaten by her pupils. Drawing back his sleeve, Thranduil wipes his mouth off on his wrist, and Legolas dizzily murmurs, “That was _wonderful_.”

“I am glad to please you,” he answers, shifting over one of her legs. He lies back down alongside her, face propped up on one hand, and the other he uses to pet her hip, which she half-turns to face him. She makes no move to cover herself, even though he’s still fully dressed, and she’s glorious in her sex-stained skin.

A knowing smiles twists along her lips, and she coyly taunts, “But I am sure my cramps will return shortly.”

He wears his own smirk. He only needs one hand to open his robes, and he only parts them, doesn’t quite withdraw them, but it’s enough to draw her gaze. Her eyes fall to his chest, hunger flicking through them, and she turns fully onto her side, her hands lifting to splay against his pale skin. He ducks over her, mouth coming to her pointed ear, and into it, he hisses, “Then I will use you again, my leaf, and again after that.” While she shivers with delight, Thranduil sticks his hand back between her legs, fingertips curling against her clit. She gasps suddenly, and he flicks it, shifting to pinch it. She throws one leg over him, giving him more room, and tries to hump him, her body pressing close, curling into him. He closes his lips around the tip of her ear, licking it before he purrs, “We will test your stamina tonight.” She tries to answer, but he continues to play with her spent pussy, and it seems to take her a moment to regain herself.

Then she murmurs, hushed but powerful, “I have _always_ wanted you.”

He kisses the shell of her ear. Then her temple, then her cheek. He admits, “I am sorry for neglecting you. It was only this temptation that I feared.”

Her face lifts sharply, and she tells him, a command befitting of a queen, “You will not do that again.”

“No,” he agrees, smiling fondly. “Never.” Her fingers slide to his neck, and she pulls him in, demanding a kiss. Even though he’s been inside her, she opens, and he tastes her mouth, their tongues slipping together: another warm, wet cavern for him to explore and hungrily devour. He kisses her breathless, until she’s wrenching away to moan, and then he continues his kisses down her neck. 

She wraps her arms tight around him, pleading, “Take me.”

Thranduil smirks and rolls them over, ready to oblige.


End file.
